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My boss is an avid golfer to the extent that I’m convinced my handicap being lower than my GPA is the actual reason I am now gainfully employed. Yesterday, I got the sort of mid-day email all sensible employees hope for: “You have stuff to do? I want to golf.” Next thing I know, I’m on my way to his country club praying my clubs are actually in my trunk and last night’s mini bender doesn’t hamper my swing. I hate being horribly hungover during golf. It’s an important time for me, unlike work.
During the drive, the weather is undeniably questionable (as has been the case lately), with mostly cloud cover and smatterings of rain that has me wondering if this entire thing is professional hazing of the new guy. I get there and mercifully find him loading up his cart, rain jacket and StaDry Titleist hat, realizing my apparel speaks to my lifestyle of being sickeningly unprepared. Just ask all the girls I’ve “forgotten” a rubber with.
So, like my compulsive purchasing of Plan B, I outfit myself in the pro shop to hide my rampant irresponsibility, spending nearly a day’s paycheck on new pants, a shirt, hat, pullover, and a box of Pro V1s when I realized they sold high numbers (if you don’t know what those are, you don’t golf). I stagger out to the cart area in my newly purchased legitimacy to find him nearing readiness to tee off. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. He’s already got a vodka tonic, though, and when he realizes I’m empty handed, he waves over a cart boy and requests he “fetch” me a drink, though without question that is not the poor kid’s job.
The round starts off as well as could be expected. I’m one over through six but on my way to a respectable, and hopefully impressive, 18 when the rain showers return. My boss decides to push through, ordering us both another drink to be delivered from the club house as the rain has reeled in the cart girl. We’re coming up nine and I’m bordering on drunk from what must’ve been double pours when the siren finally sounds.
“Fucking pussies,” he motions to me.
“Let’s head in so the pro’s head won’t explode.”
We make our way back to the clubhouse and I assume we’ll just call it a day, having played nearly nine and with the radar looking like we should be prepping an arc, not our putting stroke for the afternoon.
“Okay sir, thank you very much for taking me out here, I…”
He cuts me off.
“Stop with that “sir” shit. This’ll blow over. Let’s hydrate a bit.”
By “hydrate,” he unfortunately did not mean water. So the next thing I know I’m trying to match his inhalation of old fashioneds when the room starts to spin and I sincerely wonder what the fuck is going to come out of my own mouth. Fortunately, when he brings up politics, he’s bashing Hillary to the point where I almost feel bad for her, and with another old fashioned scorching my intestinal tract I’m letting my conservative flag fly.
“Finally, we hire somebody from your generation with some common sense,” he says.
Unfortunately, I’m convinced we’re in the midst of an unending earthquake as the room spins and trembles in my blinding drunkenness. He somehow just keeps ordering, claiming the radar is “looking pretty good” and that we will “be back out there in a drink or two.” I need an escape, at least a temporary timeout from what feels like a workplace pledge drink-a-thon. I excuse myself for what I had planned on being a long pee and cold water facial to remind myself I was still alive.
I get to the locker room and find some aspirin, what I thought was a huge break for my already developing headache. I pop some like Tic-Tacs and sit down on a bench to try and regain my vision. What I didn’t realize, and I suppose is part of the reason I lasted two weeks as pre-med, is that aspirin actually thins your blood, which, though it may prevent a heart attack, makes you far drunker.
I quickly felt this effect, making it rain spew in a toilet stall like a demon inhabited my body. I stumbled back to the bench thinking I had a few more minutes of my boss just assuming I was mid-shit and not thinking anything of my absence. I closed my eyes for a moment to try and recalibrate what had become my merry-go-round looking world.
And then I opened them in darkness. I had fallen asleep, terrifyingly scrambling to open my phone and see the time. 9:52 p.m. The light illuminated the abandoned locker room. Dozens of texts and missed calls littered my phone as my heart raced.
“What the fuck?” said my boss succinctly in his message.
So we will see what happens today at work. I may or may not be fired..